Reverberations
by periferal
Summary: Four brief scenes out of the aftermath to the events of "The Six Thatchers" **"Am I making the wrong choice?" John asks miserably one night. It's about two weeks on, maybe. "I keep thinking I can cut him out entirely, why would this be any different?" He stares at the wall. He has been doing that lots, lately.**


_Author's note: Hello Sherlock fandom! It's been a while, and a very long and messy road. I just saw "The Six Thatchers" and I couldn't not write something. So, I've stayed up really late writing something. Here are some brief, loosely connected scenes about how I imagine the aftermath might go._

 _Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoy._

 _()_

"Am I making the wrong choice?" John asks miserably one night. It's about two weeks on, maybe. "I keep thinking I can cut him out entirely, why would this be any different?" He stares at the wall. He has been doing that lots, lately. He's in his chair, which he brought from 221B. It's the only piece of furniture other than Rosemond's crib that's from there.

"I wouldn't be able to tell you," Greg says. He has his feet propped up on Molly's coffee table. "I have never made wise choices when it comes to Sherlock Holmes." He scratches at the back of his head. He wants a smoke.

"Twice now," John says, "twice now he's blown my life to pieces and this time—this time I have a _daughter_." Oh god, Rosemond. He's been getting even less sleep since…since.

"I'm sorry," Greg says. There's not much else he feels he can say. "I'm just so sorry."

"How could you have never noticed her?" Sherlock shouts. They're in Mycroft's office. "She was right in front of your bloody noses all these years, and you mean to tell me that you never noticed."

Mycroft makes the tiniest of sighs. "Sherlock," he says, "she was the secretary."

"It's almost a cliché!" Sherlock feels moments away from grabbing Mycroft, slamming him against something. The wall, maybe. But Mycroft is Mycroft, and Mycroft has guards, probably. And Sherlock isn't high. Unfortunately, "The secretary, under the radar of the whole bloody office the whole entire time. How could you?"

"I made a mistake," Mycroft says. Sherlock feels that the wall behind him should crack, it's such a momentous occasion. He stores the words inside his Mind Palace, in the very sparse room containing the moments his brother was honest.

The words make Sherlock feel deflated. "I made a promise," Sherlock says, "a vow." He can see John's face, moments after Mary's death. Like a man with his heart torn open.

"Look how well that turned out for you," Mycroft says. "Sentiment, again." The words are softer, this time. Alien sympathy. "She met death at the market," Mycroft says. "Not everyone can go to other cities."

"Save John Watson, that's what she asked me to do," Sherlock says. "How am I meant to save him if I can't even _see_ him!"

"All in good time, brother dear, all in good time."

"He's not worse," Greg tells Mycroft. It's Mycroft's flat—they're usually in Mycroft's flat, because it's nicer and because Mycroft is paranoid and doesn't enjoy being away from his security systems for too long. "He's not better either, but he's not neglecting his kid or anything."

What passes unsaid is how John was for all that time between the Fall and meeting Mary.

"I fear I cannot say the same for my brother," Mycroft says. "I fear he has become obsessed with the message Mary left him."

"I bet," Greg says. He's sprawled on the couch. Mycroft is curled like a cat in a chair not unlike Sherlock's chair. It's one of the many small things that reminds Greg there's a human being in there, somewhere. Especially now, as he carries on a conversation while on his laptop. "I dunno if it'd be worse or better if it'd been from Moriarty."

"I cannot say that I will ever describe James Moriarty as good for my brother," Mycroft says.

There's quiet.

"The same could happen to me," Mycroft says. At Greg's baffled look he adds, "What I have done finding me. I dare say I have been a good deal more careful than Mary Watson ever was, but still, there is that chance." It's a statement of fact, pure and simple.

"I know, Mycroft," Greg says. "I knew what I was getting into." Dire warnings from Sherlock notwithstanding, Greg isn't stupid. He can tell when someone official has a security clearance so high it might very well contain aliens.

"This is why I enjoy your companionship," Mycroft says. "You do not expect—untidiness."

"It's why I like you too," Greg says. "You say what you mean, at least to me."

"Sherlock came around again," Molly says. John sighs.

"I wish he'd just leave me alone." Rosemond is asleep, so he's letting himself be a lot less… everything, than he is when he's actively being her father. "Is that too much?"

"He's Sherlock," Molly says. "He's very bad at that."

"He's gotten better," John says, apparently despite himself. "You should have seen him a few—well you would have," he finishes lamely.

The idea that there was a Sherlock before John who managed to survive without getting himself impaled on a railroad spike somewhere is hard for him to understand, sometimes. It's like his memories of himself before he met Sherlock, or after… everything.

He's doing it again. He's letting himself dwell on it and he can't do that. He must be here for Rosamond and if he's stuck thinking about the man who got her mother… well… than there will be nothing left.

He's spent enough time waiting patiently for people to come home, these past few years.

"I know what you mean, John," Molly says awkwardly. "I think I do better than anyone."

Rosie cries over the monitor. "I'll take care of her," Molly says. "Don't worry."

She leaves John to the couch. He lets his head drops into his hands. He is tired, and feels very, very old.

Could others take the place of the man meeting death? If another went to Baghdad, if another went in his place, would that save the man, or just delay it?  
Sherlock stands on his chair. John's chair is gone, which is wrong in ways that make his head hurt, but he can't think about that right now.

"Go to hell, Sherlock Holmes," he repeats out loud to himself. Those were her last words, not just her plea to rescue John. "Mary, Mary, quite contrary," he says, unsure of the purpose of the rhymes.

There is nothing stopping him from getting high. He could get some easily from the dregs of his homeless network, and then—what then?

He certainly wouldn't be bored, but then John would be—his mind stalls. He looks at the empty spot where the chair would be.

If he's high, he can't try to save John, he decides. He steps down from the chair. He needs his violin. He needs to do something.

He needs to think.

 _Please review! They're very good for my writer's soul._


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